


Reach For Me (I'll Reach For You)

by 221BroadwayIron



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Experiments (kinda), Fluff, Gen, John Watson Needs A Hug, John is a Good Friend, Sherlock Holmes Being a Good Friend, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, they're both bad at feelings, touch-starved Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 10:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24848263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221BroadwayIron/pseuds/221BroadwayIron
Summary: “I think there’s something wrong with me.”----------Or, John does an experiment and Sherlock tries sentiment.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	Reach For Me (I'll Reach For You)

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and unbrit-picked, so tell me if you find any mistakes!

Sherlock didn’t like being touched. It was something John had discovered early on in the way he quickly moved away when the doctor went to clap him on the back after a case or how he hovered incessantly when John got injured, but never reached out to touch him.

It was inevitable that they’d brush against each other every once in a while—they were sharing one flat after all—but John had thought he’d been getting better at avoiding even those small instances. Noticing where Sherlock was and how close he was to him was almost second nature, like triple checking which container he grabbed out of the refrigerator lest he accidentally brought another spleen to the clinic for lunch. 

Not today, though, apparently.

Sherlock had cleared off (and thoroughly sanitized) a small section of table for them to eat their take away at. Now he was explaining the finer points of his deductions from their latest case while absentmindedly twirling strands of pasta around his fork.

“Eat,” John prodded, reaching for the salt. His words interrupted Sherlock mid-twirl so that several noodles flopped back into their container and splashed sauce onto the tabletop. _Honestly_.

Startled back into the present, Sherlock looked at his fork and then reached for the salt himself. When his hand accidentally brushed John’s—or maybe John’s accidentally brushed his—the detective flinched so badly that his chair went skidding across the floor with a loud screech. Fork clattering to the linoleum, Sherlock leapt away from the table and began pacing the sitting room, frantically rubbing the spot on his hand.

“Sherlock? _Sherlock_!”

He finally halted, staring blankly down at the street. All John could see was his back silhouetted against the light.

“Sherlock? You okay?”

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” he replied in a stiff voice without turning from the window.

“What? _No_.” John rose and tentatively moved to stand next to the detective. “No. There’s nothing wrong with you, Sherlock.” To his surprise, when John glanced up at the man’s profile his eyes were red and damp. Was he _crying_? “There’s nothing wrong with not liking to be touched, Sherlock. And I… apologize. I wasn’t watching where my hand was. Won’t happen again.”

Sherlock shook his head an infinitesimal amount. “It's not _supposed_ to hurt.” He spoke in a choked voice, finally looking down at the doctor. “Why does it _hurt_ , John?”

“It… What, it hurts when I touch you?” John asked in confusion, something cold settling in his gut. He’d been trying so hard. “That’s why you avoid it?”

“It’s not just you,” Sherlock snapped. “And I do not _avoid it_.”

“Um, yes, you do!” _Thank goodness it’s not something_ I’m _doing_.

“It’s like... feels like fire ants,” he continued in a whisper, “a tingling, burning sensation under the skin.” He never meant to pull away. It was involuntary, the same as yanking fingers back from a hot stove. An involuntary reaction he cursed because sometimes his body, his whole, weak body, craved the touch. Despite the pain, because of the pain. “You’re a doctor, John. Make it stop.”

“I’m not—”

“Please.”

John opened his mouth, watching as Sherlock turned back toward the window, still cradling his hand. Sherlock would never go to someone about this, never went to anyone about anything. _The body is just transport_ , he’d say, _It doesn’t matter_. He despised everything that made him seem weak, made him just human like everybody else. It was a testament to how bad the problem was—and how much he trusted John—that he even told _him_. How long had he been suffering in silence before then?

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

* * *

It was several days later while Sherlock was perched on the back of his chair that John strode over holding out his open laptop.

“No.” The detective waved a hand at him in dismissal without so much as a glance at John or the computer.

“Sherlock…”

“Yes, I know. You believe you’ve figured out my little ‘problem’. But you haven’t. You’ve found some old parenting blogs that say it’s Autism or Asperger’s, but Mycroft already had the tests done years ago and—”

“And?” John asked, genuinely curious. That would explain a lot.

“The results are irrelevant,” the detective snapped. “And I don’t need your help so you can continue emailing your ‘friend’ from the army—”

“This is something different.” John carefully balanced his computer across Sherlock’s knees. “Listen, have you ever heard of this thing called ‘touch starvation’?”

“Boring, why would I have heard of it? Now shut up, John. I’m trying to focus on a case.”

“No, you’re _not_! We don't _have_ a case on!” John threw his arms up in frustration. “Just read the _bloody_ article, okay?”

Sherlock read the article.

* * *

“We’re going to do an experiment.” That was enough to pull him out of his Mind Palace and back to 221B.

“Oh?” John never wanted to do experiments. He just got mad at Sherlock about the ones he did. They occupied the entire kitchen table, the curtains still smelled like scorched plastic, he’d ruined the tea kettle (again), John had mistakenly taken a spleen for lunch instead of his sandwich...

“Yup,” John replied with forced cheerfulness and sat on the other end of the sofa. Suspicious. “I’ve been reading about your… touch starvation. I have a plan—of sorts—to fix it.”

That did not sound like the type of experiment Sherlock wanted to do. No fire, no body parts, not useful on a future case. “I’m not broken, John. You don’t need to _fix_ me. The point of experiments is their relevance to the Work. Calling something unpleasant an ‘experiment’ does not inherently make it more enticing.”

“I know, Sherlock, but let me do this, okay? I know this touch thing is bothering you. You never would have brought it up if it wasn’t. So just… humor me for this, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock breathed out a sigh, but sat up in resignation to face the doctor. “What do you propose?”

“I… well, um, I think we need to slowly get you used to physical contact. We’re going to practice. Every day, after dinner.” John shifted uncomfortably. “So… uh, give me your hand.”

“My _what_?”

“Your hand, Sherlock,” John snapped. He ran his own over his forehead. “You know what? You’re right. This is stupid. Why am I even trying? You don’t care…” He went to push himself off the sofa. “Just forget about it.”

“No!” The frantic whisper had John sitting back against the cushions and turning to the detective. His eyes were pinched closed, but he stretched one of his pale hands, trembling slightly, in John’s direction.

“Alright,” said John, slipping into doctor mode. “I’m going to take your hand. Ready?”

Sherlock nodded, but still started when John’s fingers lightly touched his.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth. “No.” He yanked his hand away from John’s, breathing heavily. 

“Okay. Okay, that’s good,” John reassured him. “We’re going to try it again in a few minutes. I’ll… Um, I’m going to get you some water.”

They tried several more times over the course of the evening. By the last one, John could hold Sherlock’s hand for nearly a half minute before it became too much for the man. It wasn’t much, really, but it was progress.

* * *

They made more progress over the coming weeks. Eventually, holding hands no longer hurt Sherlock. He never shrunk back when they brushed past each other in the hallway or the kitchen, and he’d started shaking hands without his gloves on again. Sometimes, when he was curled up on the sofa, lost in thought, John would plop down on the other end with his newspaper and a steaming cuppa. Sherlock would relax his posture until his cold feet casually rested against the side of the doctor’s leg.

It was changing their relationship. They still ran across London for dangerous cases, still constantly teased each other, but their evenings were spent sitting together on the couch. Sometimes they watched telly or read through the cold case files Lestrade had recently dropped off. Other times, John would persuade Sherlock to tell him the story behind one of the many odd knick knacks that cluttered their flat.

Sherlock had fewer strops, or at least more tolerable ones, which was why when they returned home from a particularly taxing case, John was surprised when the detective didn’t remove his coat.

“I’m going out again,” he said shortly, before John had the chance to ask.

He was about to just let him go until he caught sight of the look in Sherlock’s eyes. They were glassy and haunted, and John didn’t need Mycroft’s texts pinging his mobile to tell him that this was a Danger Night.

So instead of stepping aside when Sherlock tried to squeeze past him, the doctor snatched him by the sleeve and dragged the man into the flat. “Nope, you’re not.”

Sherlock protested, but John just shoved him down onto the carpet in front of the sofa. (He had been aiming for _on_ the sofa, but Sherlock was now being extremely uncooperative.) “We’re doing an experiment, remember? You’re going to mess with the results if you leave.”

“Tamper with,” the detective mumbled.

“That too.” John sunk onto the sofa behind him. “Take your coat off,” he commanded.

And Sherlock complied because he always did when John got that particular edge to his voice.

“Good. Now, I’m going to rub your shoulders and you are going to _try_ to relax, okay, Sherlock?”

The man just nodded. He winced again at the first touch, but held himself still as John’s fingers worked into his tight muscles.

“You need to keep breathing,” John prompted, and Sherlock let out the air that had been trapped in his lungs. “There you go…”

Slowly, John could feel the detective’s shoulders relaxing. He started to get lost in the movement of his hands. Careful, methodical. It allowed his mind to wander. The case really had been a rough one. It started as only a kidnapping, but had escalated… All at once, he became aware of Sherlock’s back shuddering.

“Sherlock?” He turned the man around, only to find tears rolling down Sherlock’s face. “Oh, Sherlock…”

Sherlock tried to take a stuttering breath, but failed and pressed his lips tightly together, eyes on the ground. _Stop crying. Weak, idiot, stop it_ … Carefully, John reached out to pull Sherlock back against him. To his relief, the detective didn’t flinch, but instead buried his face in John’s jumper while he fought to gain control of himself.

“Shh, shh. It’s okay, Sherlock,” whispered John softly, resting a hand on the back of his head. “You saved them. It’s okay, it’s okay.” He lifted his hand, gently stroking the detective’s dark hair as he sobbed. “Shh, I’ve got you…”

* * *

A ringtone startled Sherlock out of his Mind Palace. _Not mine_. Sure enough, when he glanced over, John had halted in the middle of the room, mobile pressed against his ear. _So why did I notice it?_ What was so important that Sherlock’s subconscious pulled him into the present for a call? Oftentimes he didn’t even hear his _own_ phone (and when it was Mycroft calling, he _never_ heard it).

_Something’s wrong_.

John’s face was blank, like he was too busy processing mental information for it to show in his expression yet. His shoulders, though, visibly tensed and he’d begun compulsively clenching and unclenching his fist. 

Bad news. Something happened to someone. Harry? Friend from the army? _He’s not going anywhere, not rushing to A &E or someone’s residence. _ Parents? Did John have parents? _Idiot, everyone_ has _parents_. He never mentioned them though—already dead? Estranged, maybe? _Think..._

Whoever was on the other end of the line had hung up, evidently. Like molasses, the phone, gripped in John’s hand, sank from his ear and then kept sinking, infinitely slowly, until it fell from his fingers and landed with a soft thud onto the rug. One arm wrapped around his middle, the other came up to shield his face from view.

From behind the hand, something dripped, glinting in the light as it fell toward the dust. _Tears. He’s crying_. A second one followed the first, quickly chased by several more. Humans produce basal tears to prevent the eyeball from becoming too dry. These are not basal tears. Emotional and reflex tears are produced in response to pain, an emotional state, or irritation of the eye. It is widely believed that emotional tears allow the body to rid itself of excess hormones, chemicals, and stress-produced toxins. _But how to respond_? It was John, he couldn’t ignore John. That would be A Bit Not Good. 

Perhaps engage the subject? Determine the source of distress?

“What’s happened?”

John’s arm snapped from his face to his side. “Who says anything happened?” he spat, bending over to return his mobile to his pocket.

Clearly trying to ignore the obviously emotional reaction, then. Interesting.

“Nothing’s happened. I’m going to bed,” John continued in a clipped voice.

“No!” Sherlock couldn’t fix anything if John left. “You can’t…” He had to stay, stay so Sherlock could make things better. Had to _stay,_ had to— “We have to do the experiment.”

“I’m not doing that tonight, Sherlock. One night won’t botch it that badly.” He sounded exhausted. Massaging his temple, he discretely tried to wipe the tears off his face.

Sherlock jumped up and began pacing. “But it might; we don’t know. That _is_ the point of experimenting.” John couldn’t leave because then Sherlock couldn’t help him. As soon as he figured out how to help him. There had to be something. “It could— It could…” _Had to be something..._ He came to a defeated stop in front of John. “Please, can I… Can I try something?” 

John didn’t respond. But he didn’t leave either.

Inching forward, Sherlock wrapped one arm around the doctor’s back so that his forehead was resting against Sherlock’s chest. A modification of their position on the couch the other week. If John did it, surely he wouldn’t mind having it done to him, right?

John’s back was stiff, his body frozen in place. He didn’t even seem to be…

“Breathe, John.” 

As he obediently shuddered in a lungful of air, Sherlock carefully (carefully, _carefully_ ) brought his other hand up to cup the back of John’s neck. Even if he couldn’t hear John’s forced-silent sobs, he could deduce them from the way that the front of his shirt grew uncomfortably damp.

“It— It’s okay.” He spoke in a soft voice. “It’s… okay. Okay. You’re with me— I’m sure that’s not particularly comforting. Bad things tend to happen to you when you’re with me… But it’ll be alright, uh…”

“You’re rubbish at that,” came a muffled voice.

Sherlock exhaled in a breathy chuckle and let his arms slip from around John. He was relieved to see some of the old expression back in the man’s eyes. “My apologies. I meant it, though… I mean that—”

John cut him off. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

“Yes, well… I thought it might help. And it doesn’t... It, uh, doesn’t hurt anymore. To do that.”

At that, John actually smiled, albeit a bit tearily. “I’m glad. If you ever need to… continue the experiment…”

“Actually,” began Sherlock hesitantly, “I believe certain… precautionary measures may be necessary at times. To prevent a future re-occurrence of such an… unsatisfactory scenario. So, perhaps we could—”

He was cut off by John’s forehead pressing back into his shirtfront and the man’s arms wrapping securely around his body. “Shut up, Sherlock.”

Sherlock did.

  
  


_El fin_.

**Author's Note:**

> Good? Bad? Did I say 'hand' an obscene amount of times? (Pretty sure I did.) Let me know what you thought!


End file.
